


Just Before Dawn

by deanicanfixthat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (kinda), Angel Cas, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childish Dean, First Times, Human Dean, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wilderness Survival, actual sexy stuff, angsty, canon AU, dean being moody, hunter husbands, i know it's just gonna be a spirally black hole from here, like post-metatron and pre-amara ish, season 11 canon au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 23:12:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5684839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanicanfixthat/pseuds/deanicanfixthat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For 2015 Dean/Cas Secret Santa Exchange</p><p>Cas and Dean are in search of a ghost. It's an easy enough case, but Dean's been acting strangely towards Cas ever since he got his grace back. And now this so-called "simple" case is getting complex - throwing traps and strange houses into the mix.<br/>The hunter and the angel must learn to work together over this one night or else they may not reach dawn in one piece.</p><p>OR</p><p>The one where Dean is angsty, and he and Cas run around trying to solve a case before they then sit by a fire and have a chat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Before Dawn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cienna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cienna/gifts).



“Well, this is just perfect.”

Dean stands, his face set in annoyance, in front of the wooden bridge that he had been on only moments before when he’d made the crossing from the shaded, pine-decorated mainland to the smaller, equally as dense but all the more lonesome, island he is now rooted upon. Below him in the small canyon, where the river at its bed echoes up the coarse rock-face and fills the air with a tangible roar, now swings the wooden bridge with frayed rope and slack slates, however the darkness of the late hour plagues Dean’s sight and he cannot see it—only hear its melancholy creaks as it sways in the wind.

A sigh of exasperation falls from his lips as he rolls his eyes then pulls out his phone. The screen lights up, forming a little glowing sphere in the night, and he shakes his head in irritation at the lack of bars in its top, right-hand corner.

“And, obviously, there’s no signal because _that_ would be useful.”

Dean locks his phone again and shoves it back into his jacket pocket before turning around and eyeing Cas whose face, which would be unreadable to most people, shows the tell-tale signs of concern—a slightly taunt mouth with the corners pulled in; an almost minute crease between the eyebrows as they furrow gently; the movement of the eyes a flicker, rather than the ordinary sweep.

Dean turns his gaze to the dark island woods backing Cas and scans it as he folds his hands into his jacket, presses his lips together in thought, and then says, “I think that was the only physical way off this rock. Can’t remember seeing any other routes on the map.”

As he returns his gaze to Cas, Dean sees him nod, his eyes never leaving the space where the bridge once stood. “Yes, I think you’re right.”

Dean takes in a deep breath, filling his chest with the fresh air, and then shrugs his shoulders. “Well, what d’you suppose we do? Head back or...”Removing his right hand from his jacket, he sweeps it over the land before them and says, “…check out the place?”

As Dean returns his hand to the pocket for warmth, Cas’ gaze focuses on him, his eyes glowing in the pitch black.

“I can take us back later if you’d rather stay,” he says, his voice deeper than before.

Dean’s mind tenses slightly at the thought of the teleportation but then he kicks himself for being callous and just nods, once, without looking at Cas properly. “Yeah, sounds like a plan.” He can hear how curt his own voice is. “We have a job to do. Don’t want to let Sam down. So, we’ll finish and then head back.”

Cas nods, slowly, almost cautiously, and Dean can tell that Cas feels the distance he’s creating and he mentally kicks himself again, harder, but this time the word _jerk_ flashes neon in his mind. Nothing was Cas’ fault, but that wasn’t stopping the great dick that Dean was from unconsciously taking it out on him regardless.

Cas hadn’t jumped Dean anywhere in a long time, it was true. Regardless of everything else, it would be weird, it would be back on that strange personal level again—the level of particles and hands on shoulders or forehead—and Dean wasn’t sure if he was okay with that just yet. But, it was _because_ of everything else that made Dean flinch away from the idea and not make a joke about his uncertainty. He couldn’t release the tension with a toilet gag like before because, as far as Cas was concerned, there _wasn’t_ any tension. It was just Dean’s pathetic head not liking what was now different.

Because Dean had noticed the change from the very beginning. Cas’ stance was stronger now, his voice deeper, richer. His grasp was more confident and his eyes more alive. His shoulders were wide pillars of strength, immovable like mountains, and he walked with an air of duty, like he meant something again.

Sure, Dean had noticed the change, you couldn’t not. And, sure, Cas had the right to do so. He wasn’t changing into something new or unrecognisable, it was just the old Cas, back again. Cas filled with grace. Cas, the way he was meant to be.

But, still.

"Dean, look…" Cas’ voice cuts through his thoughts and Dean initially becomes embarrassed, thinking that Cas has somehow read his mind and is hurt—pained by the heartlessness of his friend. But then Dean notices Cas’ hand is raised and pointing into the murky forest, toward something physical for Dean to turn his gaze to.

With the fluster still slowly seeping from his body, Dean follows Cas’ direction and sees nothing at first, just a swirling mist that wasn’t there before. But then, as if emerging like a photograph in the red dark, a formation begins to show.

Corners and edges emerge, then wooden steps and sheets of glass. Metal hinges and slate waves. A splintered fence and rusted numbers. Then a front door, closed in a way that made it seem like it hadn’t been opened in a century or more.

"Well, that wasn't on the map," Dean states, confusion lining his features.

Then, before the final image has time to settle, a great _whoosh_ fills the air behind them and sends waves of dead leaves spiralling towards them in forced pirouettes.  The two men spin on their heels to face the source of the power and are met with a 2-foot-tall wall of flames lining the edge of the island where the bridge once connected to it.

Cas clears this throat gently. "That's...uh..."

"Spooky."

"Exactly."

They both stand for a few moments, eyes wide in confusion as they try to process the event, before Dean cautiously steps forward and kneels half a metre from the flames. Cas remains at a distance as Dean examines the ground, then the fire itself, before straightening up and gazing across the flames to the sparse strip of land on the other side.

"Seems natural enough,” he concludes cautiously as he speaks over his shoulder at Cas without removing his gaze from the light before him. “But fires just don't start up like that. And this ain't the area for wildfires - 'specially not in December."

Dean hears Cas shift before he then appears beside him, mouth once again pull taunt in concern.

Dean shakes his head, his mind racking through possibilities, before gesturing towards the line of fire that disappears into the trees. “And look. It just keeps goes. Doesn’t seem to end.”

Cas follows Dean’s gaze and then continues it on, trying to see if it’s the same on the other side of the island and trying to see where the fire may end, before he then returns his line of sight to Dean, unsuccessful. Although not entirely visible, the trail of heat appeared to line the island’s edge, pushing whoever or whatever was inside of it towards the house. And, at the same moment they acknowledge that fact, Dean and Cas turn their eyes to one another and silently speak, their realisation dawning. What with the bridge and now the fire, it was clear that everything was a trap designed to hem people in so they can't escape and thus have to go to the house in the island’s centre for help, unbeknown to the victim that that exact decision would be the cause of their demise.

Dean smirks gently and shakes his head. “Kinda clever, y’gotta admit.”

Cas nods and turns to look at the desolate house. “It would certainly trick an unsuspecting hiker.”

Dean laughs once and turns to look upon the house as well. But then, as he slowly catalogues the facts of the case, his smile begins to fade and his brow becomes furrowed.

"Something doesn't feel right,” he says after a few minutes of silence, bar the crackling of the flame behind them. In the edge of his vision, Dean sees Cas turn to face him and so continues, formulating his flying thoughts just milliseconds before vocalising them. “This is just a simple ghostbusters case. The girl drowned. It was pretty recent and it was a complete accident. She shouldn’t be able to make fire, or break bridges. This is getting a bit…” Dean’s frown deepens, unable to find the right word that doesn’t make him sound like he used to when he was young and inexperienced.

“Abnormal.” Cas says. It’s not a question, but rather a statement of fact that reassures Dean that his assumptions aren’t wrong—this wasn’t what they had expected. It was meant to be a simple salt and burn to get rid of a new ghost. Something easy and fulfilling that Sam had set them the task of—no doubt having noticed Dean’s change in attitude and prescribed a dose of _Get Your Shit Together_ by giving them the case. And honestly, Sam was right in doing so. Dean couldn’t help with fighting Amara if he couldn’t work properly with one of his team players. But, this wasn’t right—this case was becoming more than the mind-numbingly easy task they had thought it would be.

Dean shrugs. “Yeah. Honestly, yeah, something like that.”

The two men look at each other for a few seconds, decisions flying between them in silent conversation, before Dean sighs and shakes his head while running an open palm over his face in defeat.

"Go on then, Cas, take us back. We’ll see what Sam’s dug up an’ hopefully sort this shit out before it gets bad.”

Cas nods slowly, thoughtfully, careful to not acknowledge Dean’s defensive side but also to not be insensitive to it, and then he casts his eyes around the woods before letting them fall, solemnly, upon the looming building in the distance. After a moment, Cas turns back to Dean and nods one more time, almost in a final resolve, as he raises his hand and rests it upon Dean’s right shoulder.

The air around them stills for a long moment. Then the moment stretches a little longer, and then falls, awkwardly, to the floor where it lays, confused.

“Uh…Cas…?” Dean haltingly asks, mildly embarrassed.

Cas doesn’t speak, but his eyes scan the ground and become increasingly widened in alarm.

At last, his voice returns, quiet and powerless. “…I can’t.”

Dean frowns. “What?”

Cas raises his gaze to capture Dean’s eyes and says, more firmly this time, “I can’t go anywhere. I can’t move.”

“You can’t teleport?”

A deep furrow of worry moulds Cas’ forehead as he drops his hand from Dean’s shoulder and slowly shakes his head.

Dean’s jaw slackens and his voice spikes with anxiousness. “You’re kidding me. Cas, tell me you’re joking.”

Cas shakes his head, a mixture of shame, distress, anguish, and confusion pumping through him. “I don’t know what to say, Dean.”

Dean steps back and scans the trees above Cas as he runs his hand through his own hair and processes their entrapment. “You’re an angel again, Cas,” he says, his gaze still working its way along the branches of the trees. “How the hell does this happen? You’re supposed to be all high and mighty and able to do… _whatever_. So how come we’re _stuck_?” On the last word he returns his gaze to Cas—who stands in the dark wood, with only one side of him visible from the warm light of the fire, and with guilt and remorse weighing on his shoulders and making them slump.

“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know, Dean,” he says, his voice small.

The words strain Dean’s chest and make him feel breathless and evil. Yet again he was taking things out on Cas that weren’t his fault.

Dean watches his own feet as he scuffs his right heel into the ground. Then he looks back up at Cas and shrugs with one shoulder. “…Sorry.”

Cas’ eyes fix upon Dean and search his face, seemingly looking through him—through whatever façade Dean has formulated. And Dean shifts, uncomfortable, and is about to look away when Cas’ gaze sweeps to the left, away from Dean completely, and his eyes widen again.

Cas turns to study the fire once more before saying, “Are you sure that we’re dealing with a spirit?”

“Yeah, that’s what Sam said,” Dean replies, perplexed. “A ghost, vengeful spirit, whatever. Why?”

Cas doesn’t respond and Dean can see the cogs turning, whirling with the mental process. Less than a minute later, Cas reaches an open hand out to Dean. “Give me your torch.”

Dean quickly complies and Cas wastes no time as he charges into the depths of the woods, away from the fire, with Dean quick on his heels. The white light of the torch is almost erratic, searching every inch of the dry ground as Cas kicks dead leaves and fallen branches from his path.

“Cas, buddy. What you looking for? What you thinking?” Dean questions, as he watches the movement of the clear light.

Then it halts, along with Cas—so suddenly that Dean almost crashes into him. Stepping to the side, Dean then sees the reason behind Cas' abrupt stop. In the clearing before them, the ground is decorated with line after line of carved earth, which makes Dean’s heart turn cold and heavy as a stone.

When Cas finally does respond to Dean, his words are not an explanation, but rather an unwelcome acknowledgement.

“The entire island,” he says, defeatedly. “It’s an angel trap.”

* * *

“C’mon Sammy, pick up,” Dean mutters into his phone as Cas kneels a couple of metres away, examining the markings on the floor.

“ _We are sorry, but the number you are trying to reach is unavai—”_

“God _dammit_.”

Dean pulls his phone from his ear and hangs up. Quickly opening his messages and clicking on Sam’s name, he types out a text and sends it. Locking his phone and putting it back in his coat pocket, he starts walking over to Cas, saying, “For the fact that he’s such a big tech nerd, you’d think he might return my calls every once in a while.”

Cas glances over his shoulder and provides a small smirk in response before returning his gaze to the ground. Dean copies the movement, turning his mind to the case.

“What’re you thinking?” he asks, watching Cas.

Cas straightens up and stands beside Dean, his eyes glancing into the forest towards the still-alight flames. “At first, I thought it was just the fire. But it felt...different, and from what I can see of this…” Cas gestures to the engraved floor and shakes his head.

“So what? It’s an angel sigil trap surrounded by a ring of fire created by holy oil?”

Cas nods, conclusively, and Dean laughs once, bitterly. “Dude, someone really wanted to make sure you didn’t leave here.”

Cas’ gaze returns to Dean with an edge, but he eventually nods again, agreeing to the final and undeniable conclusion.

“So…you got ideas?” Dean shifts in the cold and watches as Cas shakes his head.

“It could be a number of things. Someone with knowledge of angel sigils, of course, but that isn’t very difficult to come by anymore if you know the right people.”

“And everyone seems to be _the right people_ nowadays.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, whatever it is, we’ve ganked worse,” Dean says, putting his cold hands in his jacket pockets. “And, honestly, it doesn’t seem to be on the offensive. More of a defensive thing going on, what with the traps. It doesn’t even seem to be after us right now.”

“It knows we’re here though,” Cas reminds him, and Dean watches as his breath swirls like smoke in the night. “It set off the trap.”

“Yeah, but it might be weak. We’ve been out here for ages, and we ain’t been _quiet_ about it. And yet…” Keeping his hands in his pockets, Dean shrugs as if to present himself. “Here we are. Unbloodied and having a chat.”

Cas nods, the skin around his eyes growing taunt as he processes Dean’s words, before he sighs, “We should go to the house.”

Dean looks to his right where the house stands, perpendicular to them. “I’m thinking that, whatever it is, its main strength is trapping people, rather than tearing them apart. So, let’s mess up its system. Let’s take the fight to them.”

“The house may be covered in traps though,” Cas replies, turning toward the building as well, “especially as that’s where it wants people to go.”

“Yeah, true. But we’re still gonna be stronger, I reckon.”

At the same time, the two men turn their gaze to one another in a silent acknowledgment of their plan.

And that’s when Dean feels it—this comfortable air—and he hates it. An immature, mean part inside him detests it and wants to make Cas feel small. And so, without much thought, that part of him takes over and Dean says, “But, let me lead, okay? You’re useless right now.”

As the words ring through the air, Dean instantly knows he’s made a mistake. Maybe the comment would have been funny in another place at another time, but right now it has a hint of malice behind it. And Cas instantly feels it.

A flicker of pain flashes across Cas’ face and Dean turns away, knowing that he won’t be able to bare seeing it because this is different from normal as he is now the reason such an expression exists.

Cas puffs a short burst of air out of his lungs before quietly saying, “I was able to help you before when I _didn't_ have my grace, and so I can now.”

Dean closes his eyes, disgusted with himself. He was a jerk and there was no doubting it.

“I know,” he replies, his voice as small as he feels. But, regardless of how much he knows he should, he can’t bring himself to apologise. So he simply opens his eyes and forcibly smiles gently, before saying, “It’s just…it seems like you’re probably the target here, what with the trap and all. So, just keep behind me, okay?”

Cas doesn’t respond, at least not vocally. Instead he stares as Dean, making his self-deprecation worse, before dropping his eyes to the ground and heading towards the house. Silently, Dean steps in line with him.

As they walk, using the moon to light their path, they both switch on their guard and move with caution lacing their steps. However, they make it to the fence of the house with not even a snap of a twig to alert them that something else is out there.

The house is far worse close up. It’s the type of building that would be right at home in a complex where every house has the exact same lay out and only took a day each to build—if since the build the world has undergone an apocalypse with the housing complex being at the eye of the storm.  The vertical wooden slates that form the outer walls of the house had most probably been cream once upon a time, but the vast majority of the paint has chipped off and left nothing but mite-infested and un-weatherproof strips of moulding wood. The front porch creaks in even the slightest breeze and is missing at least a quarter of its planks. And, although the upper windows are intact, the lower windows are all boarded over, no doubt with strips of the same wood panels use to line the outside of the house.

Dean and Cas hesitate at the gate to the property but, after a quick glance in one another’s direction, slowly make their way forward, keeping their eyes peeled for any awaiting attacker or trap. The porch steps are soft as they creak and sag under the weight of Dean and then Cas, as they make their way up to the porch and, finally, stand before the front door. Dean shifts so his back is to the wall beside the door and reaches behind him, unhooking his gun from its carrier at the small of his back, before then grasping forward and taking the door handle in his empty hand.

Silent gestures quickly fly between the two men in explanation and discussion, finally ending with simultaneous nods of their heads. They still and then, after a whispered count down of _three, two, one_ from Dean, the front door is haltingly swung open and the men peer around the doorframe and quickly scan the murky scene it has revealed.

The dark hallway is large, entirely covered with cobwebs, and completely empty. Still, to test the area out, Cas bends low and picks up a loose porch board and tosses it into the building. The quiet, dull thud of rotten wood hitting even more rotten wood echoes slightly, but nothing else happens. The plank isn’t captured and held hostage, or burnt to a crisp by a blowtorch, or even hit by a flying arrow. Indeed, the plank has simply moved from being outside to now being inside and in their way.

Dean turns to Cas and they shrug at one another before peering into the room once again.

So, no immediate booby-traps, however, through his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness, Dean can make out two closed doors and one open one on the lower level, with a staircase lining the far wall. There was still opportunity for ambush or attack, so their movements couldn’t slacken in wariness.

Raising his gun so it balances horizontally against his chest, Dean gestures to Cas to step away from the wall and follow Dean into the house. Cas nods and straightens up before twisting to make his way through the doorway, accidentally stepping ahead of Dean.

But that’s all that’s needed. Just one step.

Because as Dean scans the porch, front garden, and forest one final time, Cas is lurched forward and the front door slammed shut behind him. Dean freezes for a moment as realisation dawns on him, but then within another second his fists are hammering into the door and his shoulder is slamming against it.

“Cas _?_ ” he calls out as he backs up and then rams into the wooden door once more, without it budging a millimetre. “ _Cas_!” His voice becomes harsh and anxious as no response is given.

“ _Shit_ …” he curses into the wind.

Dean steps back, taking in the front door and the boarded windows as he thinks. Then he charges around the left side of the building, following it the entire way around, as he looks for a gap in the window armour.

As he’s scanning the back wall of the house, a clatter sounds from the top floor, followed by a dull and heavy thud. Instantly, Dean’s heartbeat heightens and his body turns cold. Panic burns through his veins as he launches himself at the closest window and starts tearing the wood from it as a feeling of helplessness washes over him.

Then, a trill sound cuts through the air, and it takes Dean a moment to recognise what it is.

Quick as anything, Dean rips his phone from his pocket, answering it. “ _Sammy?”_

“ _Dean?_ ” Sam’s voice cuts through the air waves, full of concern. “What the—what’s going on?”

“What did you send us after?” Dean’s shouting, he can hear it, but he can’t lower his decibel count no matter how much he tries. He rests his phone in the crook between his hunched shoulder and ear and returns to pulling the wooden planks away from the window. They split and crumble in his hands from years of wear.

“What—Dean, what's wrong?" Sam responds, the pitch rising an octave.

“It’s not a ghost, Sam," Dean explains. Half the window is free now. "It destroyed a bridge and then it _made an angel trap_. And now," Dean yanks a whole plank away in one stroke, "now it has Cas.”

“It has _Cas??”_

“Yeah, we were going in after it," The glass window is almost entirely visible now so Dean grabs the phone in one had and hold it up to his ear properly as he kicks the glass in, "and it slammed the door in my face and stole him away.”

The window crashes to the floor inside the building, but the other end of the line turns deathly quiet.

Dean freezes.

He straightens up and swallows, once, unnerved. “Sam?”

A pause.

Then, “I lied to you.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I—” Dean's mind and vision simultaneously goes blank as Sam sighs, guiltily, in his ear  “It’s not a ghostbusters case. It’s a witch," Sam admits, his words running together. "News of her has been floating around recently. She…" He takes a depth breath, "she’s after angel parts.”

Dean's skin prickles. “ _Angel parts_?”

“Yeah, for a spell. But, she’s low tier witch—an easy job." Sam hesitates then, as Dean stares into the abyss of the broken window, he sighs again, and slowly makes his admission. "I thought that if you guys went you could tie up the case quickly and then sort out whatever it is that's messing you guys up.” A light breeze rustles through the forest and rushes at Dean, whistling past the gapping hole in front of him, as Sam's voice turns small. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean listens to the building. Nothing. Not even a creak as the aged house settles.

So, as he carefully steps closer to the newly formed entrance in order to survey the apparently barren surroundings, he gives in to his frustration and quietly asks, “Why didn’t you tell us the truth? Tell us the real case?”

“Because Cas wouldn’t have gone if you'd known. Or, he would’ve gone but not stepped onto the island." There's a rustle on the other end of the line and Dean knows his brother is shrugging. "It was perfect exactly _because_ it blocked Cas and stopped him from jumping you guys out of there. You guys needed to go because it made you trapped and you needed to be in order to properly talk.”

The room beyond the window fully settles in Dean's sight. Empty. Door shut.

Dean reaches for his torch before cursing under his breath. Cas still had it.

As Dean slowly clambers into the dark house, careful to avoid the protruding shards of broken glass decorating the window frame, he simply states, “You should have told us the truth, Sam. Even if it was when we were already on the island.”

Dean’s feet find the floor of what appears to be the old kitchen and he steadies himself.

“I told you to call when you were there—I was going to explain then,” Sam replies, still apologetic but with a defensive edge, now.

A frown heavies Dean's gaze as he casts his around the room with each step forward that he takes.“I _tried_ to call you. And anyway, I was kinda preoccupied with angel traps and fire suddenly appearing all over the place and nearly burning my _ass_ off.” He sighs. It wasn't the time for this argument. Later, sure, he'd let Sam have it. But right now Cas was in trouble.

He reaches the closed door and halts. His resolves settles as he takes a deep breath. “But, regardless of your stupid decision, it’s actually a little bit of a relief to know what I’m up against. So, low level witch?”

Sam hesitates at first, surprised by the sudden change in the tone, but then falls into the conversation with ease. “Yeah. Iron shackles should do it.”

Dean nods, and reaches for the door's handle as he eyes the object's vast wooden surface. “Thanks. But you’re not off the hook.”

Movement at the other end of the line again; Sam's voice cracks through the noise. “I know. And I’m already on my way to put out the fire—you won’t have to wait for it to die by itself.”

Dean nods again and simply responds with, "I'll call with an update," before hanging up and putting his phone away.

The room is quiet once more.

Slowly, Dean tightens his grip and then twists his wrist, edging open the door in front of him, centimetre by centimetre. The hallway comes into view, empty just like the kitchen, and Dean sees the plank Cas threw, only now it's been kicked to the side. Dean's back tenses with worry, but he pushes the feeling away. He needs to focus.

Cautiously, Dean takes a step into the hall, then another one, all the while hugging the wall with his back and keeping his gun close. The other door that had been closed was still that way and the open room turns out to just be a pantry, so Dean dismisses them both quickly and heads towards the stairscase. He keeps his feet to the outer most edges of each step as he makes his way to the upper level, so the minimise the amount of creaks his body weigh creates, and thus arrives on the top floor in silence.

There are two doors. Both closed.

Dean pauses at the top of the stairs and thinks, his eyes shooting from one door to the other. Then he drops his gaze to the floor and notices them—delicate in the moonlight. Dust tracks.

Dean steps, his feet light, towards the right hand door, where he stills outside of it.

He takes a deep breath and raises his gun to his chest, slowly counting down again.

With a swift and precise kick, the old door flies from his hinges—and then he sees her.

She's young, with rich, dark hair and even darker skin. Her eyes, in contrast, are a pure blue, like the ocean. And, as the door clatters to the ground and her gaze turn on him, he notices that they're as wild as the ocean too. Untameable and volatile.

As Dean steadies himself on his feet, the witch tenses like a wary cat and then swings her arm, sending a wardrobe flying at Dean. It crashes into his side, winding him and sending him sprawling—his gun flying from his grasp and ricocheting off the nearby wall.

Dean’s vision spins and his mind clouds, but through the murk he sees the witch step up to a fleshy heap on the floor.

Cas.

Dean’s voice croaks in his throat as he protests and then pushes himself up from the ground. He stands quickly and, though the witch is also speedy, he’s quicker. Her arm slices through the air and a small table flies towards Dean, but he sidesteps it at the last moment. The witch’s eyes narrow.

As the witch analyses Dean, he swiftly surveys the room for anything resembling an iron chain but, unsurprisingly, ends up emptied-handed. So, he turns back to her and raises his hands, as if attempting to tame a wild animal.

A deathly scream suddenly erupts from the woman, encasing the word, “ _NO!_ ” as she then smirks and glances down at Dean’s feet.

The cracks echo around the room as pain shoots up from ankles and turn his legs to fire, or electricity, or the white heat of heartbreak. Dean tumbles, crumpling backwards until he lies almost in the open doorway, and then hears witch moving forward again, right to Cas.

Ignoring the pain, Dean stretches his hands to the side and then lifts his head, before calling out, “ _Don’t_.”

The witch pauses, looking at Dean for a long moment, but then returns her gaze to Cas.

Dean’s fingers hit metal.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he repeats. The witch ignores him.

His fingers encircle his gun.

“Cas, _wake_ _up_.”

He doesn’t move.

The witch grabs the lapel of the angel’s coat.

She raises her other hand, in which is grasped Cas’ angel blade.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Dean says, one last time. "Please."

The woman’s hand drops and Dean’s finger contracts.

The sound of the gun echoes around the island and blade clangs to the floor, followed by the deadened slump of a young woman.

Dean loosens his grasp and the gun drops to the floor as he lies back and rests his head against it too. Tensing his jaw, he closes his eyes, frustrated.

* * *

“Yeah, we’ll be there by morning,” Dean says, nodding along to his words even though he knows his brother won’t see the gesture.

“I’ll try and get there earlier,” Sam responds.

Cas enters the upstairs room, his hands filled with planks of wood and discoloured sheets, and he heads over to where Dean is leant up against the far wall.

“Thanks,” Dean says to his brother, as he watches Cas kneel down beside his feet and drop the contents of his arms.

“Okay, well, be there soon. And, again…I’m really sorry, Dean.”

Cas looks up and catches Dean’s eyes as he nods again and simply says, “I know, Sam.”

Once Dean has hung up, Cas says, “Sam’s coming?”

“Yeah. Said he’d meet us in the morning at the place where the bridge is supposed to be. He’s bringing a ladder or a rope or something.”

Dean shrugs slightly and reaches to put his phone in his pocket, but his fingers falter in the cold.

Cas watches and then says, “It might be a good idea to move to the fire earlier than that.”

Dean looks up at his friend and then rolls his eyes back down to his jacket again, a small, embarrassed smirk on his lips. “I hadn’t realised before now just how cold it actually is. I was…preoccupied, I suppose.”

An acknowledging grunt sounds in Cas’ throat as a response.

Dean looks up again. Cas is studying the broken and swollen ankles that are now weighing down Dean’s legs and making his head feel faint.

“Look…you don’t have to help,” Dean says, shifting his gaze between Cas and his feet.

Cas raises his gaze, frowning. “Of course I do.”

Dean hesitates but then gently nods as he lets out a long breath. “Okay.”

The room becomes quiet for a few seconds as Cas thinks. Then, he shucks off his coat and holds it out to Dean with one of its arms separate from the rest of it.

“Bite down on this,” he says, apologetically. “It’s going to hurt.”

* * *

 “So…are you not going to ask?”

Cas had been relatively silent since he splinted Dean’s ankles, only providing the occasional and necessary comment. They were now already half way through the forest, with Dean balanced on Cas’ back, and Dean was at his wit’s end.

“Ask you what?” Cas replies, his voice annoyingly monotone.

“What...” Dean sighs and starts again. “Y’know, what happened today? How everything turned to shit. Something like that.”

Cas slows almost to a stop and cautiously steps over a large, fallen branch. Then, he shifts his shoulders to settle Dean against his back slightly better, and picks up his pace again. “The witch already explained to me who she was.”

“Yeah, but it was the wrong case. The wrong information. It was a witch rather than a ghost.”

Dean watches the back of Cas’ head for a moment or so as Cas stays silent.

Then, he just says, “I knew you’d tell me eventually.”

Staring at Cas’ crown, Dean slowly sinks into his mental self, deflated. After minute, he tugs the corner of his mouth, shamefully, and then eventually leans forward before resting his head on Cas’ shoulder. It’s only a small gesture, but Dean feels Cas’ fingertips dig into the skin behind his knees more firmly in reaction to it.

“Sam…he did it on purpose. Making us go on this case,” Dean says, softly, as he watches the warm fire slowly come nearer. “He wanted us to talk because…” He wavers and then just gives in and sighs. “Well, because I’ve been a jerk recently.”

Cas hums slightly. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Although his words are harsh, the dry humour is reassuring and welcomed, and so Dean laughs once, bitterly and apologetically, without humour.

Dean shakes his head and the flames blur in his vision. “It was just that what with you getting your grace back…everything changed.”

Twigs snap beneath Cas’ feet as he closes the last few metres to the edge of the island and to the holy flames, and Dean doesn’t think he’s going to reply. Indeed, when Cas does finally respond it’s after he’s carefully placed Dean on the floor, and after he’s silently checked on Dean’s pitiful ankles. It’s after he’s draped his coat around Dean and after he’s sat down next to him, so they lean against a tree only a metre of so from the fire.

And, when he does speak, he simply says, “Would you rather I wasn’t an angel again?”

Dean’s head whips instantly to Cas and his brow furrows as he searches his friend’s face. “No! No, of course not. It’s awesome that your mojo is back. It really is. It’s just…you made it seem like this great important thing—”

“Dean, it _is_ important—”

“Yeah, I know. I know that. And I’m not saying that it’s not.” Dean shifts his gaze to the fire, away from Cas and his unrelenting eyes. “It’s just that it you made out like you were nothing without it. Like your grace is what makes you mean something, when it’s not. You _did_ mean something without it.” Dean pauses, but then decides that, in this dark forest where his heart had jumped and almost broken at the thought of Cas falling, he should just give up his façade.

He sighs. “You’ve always meant something.”

The amber light of the fire flickers against the December ground as the air around it slowly warms. And Dean doesn’t know what he expects Cas to reply with, but it sure as hell isn’t, “I could say the same about you.”

Dean swivels his head back to his friend, but this time Cas is looking into the flames. “What?”

“You,” Cas states. “You’re always self-deprecating and wearing yourself down until you think of yourself as nothing. Nothing worth saving.” Dean swallows as his mind goes back to a broken barn and lightning—a pivotal meeting.

“But you are,” Cas continues, obviously to Dean’s memories. “You’re Dean Winchester. _The_ Dean Winchester.”

Dean scoffs and rolls his eyes to the ground. “Yeah, the same Dean Winchester that set Lucifer free and caused an apocalypse.” He shakes his head in disgust. “And has now let loose a being so old that no one even has the faintest idea how to stop it.”

Next to him, the angel nods. “True.”

Dean smirks at the brutal honesty and raises his gaze, about to make a joke, but halts when he sees how Cas’ eyes have turned soft.

Cas squints slightly, looking past the fire at his thoughts, and then continues. “But I’m Castiel. The angel that got so full of himself that he physically stuffed himself with Leviathans. And I’m the angel that tore apart the workings of heaven, and the angel that recently helped the worst scribe in existence escape his confinement. I’ve broken tablets and killed you more times than I care to remember.” Cas blinks and comes back to the reality of the island. He turns his head, locking his gaze on Dean’s eyes. “Because of who we are and what we do, it’s easy for us to judge ourselves and hate what we’ve become.” Cas’ lips pull into a small, sad smile. “But we need to remember that we’re more than what we believe we are.”

Dean’s gaze studies Cas’, and then shifts from his eyes to his lips, then to the ground and back again. He swallows and lets out a short, embarrassed laugh. “You sound like one of those tacky gas station magnets.” He raises a hand and rubs the back of his neck, breaking the eye contact again by looking at the floor. “But…thanks.” He nods as his hand drops. “And, sorry. I know it was a crappy way of going about it. I just don’t want you to think that you’re not important without your grace.” Out of the corner of his eye, Dean can see Cas watching him as he speaks, but he doesn’t let it affect his words—not this time. “Because you are important. You’re…y’know, you’re one of the most important things in my life, whether you’re smiting archangels or binge watching Netflix. Both of those people are you and neither is lesser.”

Dean nods, once—his argument put forward before the jury, his sins officially confessed. But all Cas does is clear his throat and mutter, “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean glances up at him, worried that he said the wrong thing, went a little too far. But then he sees how Cas’ eyes flicker away from his and how the hands in his lap are fidgeting and pulling at hangnails and Dean, he knows, he just _knows_ , that maybe he wasn’t wrong after all. Maybe the problem was just that he didn’t say enough, didn’t make it clear enough. And, before that thought has even been properly processed in his mind, Dean’s mouth in running—saying words he wouldn’t normally and taking the conversation to an irreversible place.

“Cas, I—I dunno. Maybe this isn’t a good time to say this, but then again maybe there will never _be_ a good time. But I just…Cas, I want you to know that I’ll never hate you. I don’t have the ability to. Even if I act like I have been, I’ll never not want you. To, y’know, be around. ‘Cause Cas I…I need you.”

Cas’ mouth, which had progressively slackened with each of Dean’s words, suddenly tightens and raises into a small smile, and then a smirk. “You _have_ said that before, Dean. That’s not entirely new news.”

Dean blinks, and then lets his face melt into a reciprocating smile, tinged with a hint of shyness. He nods, slowly, considering Cas’ comment jokingly but also honestly. “Yeah, but I really mean it. I do _need_ you, Cas. Times when you haven’t been around I’ve stopped and thought _what if this was how it was, what if Cas didn’t exist in my life_ , and I hate that. I don’t want that as a possibility.”

Cas’ smirk disappears and his eyes turn soft in the warm light. “I’ll never leave.” It’s a statement. Not a proclamation but just an acknowledgment of an undoubted truth. “I’ll be there until you die and then afterwards.”

Dean’s breath falters in his lungs, but then he let out a long sigh, smiles softly, and says, “I don’t think they permit angels in hell.”

Cas shrugs, glancing at the ground before lifting his gaze again. “Someone has to break the rules.”

The two men smirk gently at one another and a quietness falls between them. The fire before them crackles and spits and they turn to look at it. The air is warm and the ground cold, and Dean’s body is still riddled with pain. But, even with all those opposing factors, Dean’s mind stays focused on one single thing.

After a small period of heavy yet simultaneously light silence, Cas finally speaks by simply whispering the word, “Dean…”

And Dean turns, his mind filled with a million things that he wants to say, but all of them slowly dissolve into his membrane. Because all that they really are are unnecessary padding to the truth, which could be acknowledged without even a sound.

Dean shifts slightly and Cas’ eyes follow him, understanding.

Dean raises his hand and hesitates for a moment before shakily letting out a breath and placing his open palm against Cas’ cheek. Cas swallows and searches Dean’s eyes, warily, before his gaze drops to his mouth. The two falter for a second, unsure as to whether they should. But then Dean nervously rolls his tongue over his bottom lip and the tension is broken.

Cas is soft at first, Dean notes, and he tastes like a peculiar blend of nutmeg, rosemary, and warm blossom honey. But then Dean unconsciously releases a small moan of _finally, just **finally**_ in his throat and Cas takes that and deepens the kiss, pushing against Dean more and reaching to grasp at his jacket.

Dean’s hand slides from Cas’ cheek to his jaw and then to the base of his head, where he entangles his fingers in Cas’ ever-messy hair, pulling Cas into him.

A minute later, however, Dean pulls away, his mind having forgotten to breathe.

“ _Shit_ …” Dean whispers, airlessly. He closes his eyes, trying to levelling his breathing again. “I know that it’s going to sound ridiculous but…” He opens his eyes and finds Cas’—wet and glowing in the night, “I can’t even tell you how much I’ve wanted to do that.”

Cas’ gaze warms. “It may be a cliché to say but…same.”

Dean smirks, though behind it lies a smile, and he watches as Cas’ leans in once more.

Dean parts his lips almost as soon as Cas makes contact and Cas welcomingly takes that as an invitation to start where they finished, with heated gasps and tongues exploring one another’s mouths. But, as Cas shifts in the protruding tree roots in order to gain better balance, the kiss is broken, the two men ripped apart. Cas moves into a more balanced position and reaches for Dean again, but after only a few moments it’s clear that it’s not going to work, especially with Dean being unable to move—something which Dean is acutely aware of being a problem.

Cas settles against the tree again and Dean sighs, letting his head tip back to rest against the bark. “Sorry Cas, I don’t know if we can. It’s just the angle, and I can’t move, and…” Dean lifts his head and gestures to his ankles pathetically.

Cas nods, but it’s lazy, distracted. After a minute or so, Dean hears him swallow and then he quietly says, “I could…”

His words fall, unfinished, but he glances to Dean’s lap in explanation.

Dean’s mouth runs dry.

Cas was suggesting he straddle him.

Call it what you want, but that was the bare bones of it. And of course Dean wanted it. Even just the fact that any of this was happening was unreal, but for Cas to suggest doing that was on a whole different level. Sure, it was still just kissing, but it was closer, more personal. And, from that, warning bells clanged in Dean’s mind saying that this would be what would push their friendship over the edge into something more—allowing Cas to do such a thing would be what would make their steps irreversible. But Dean ignores the alarms. Or rather, takes them on board and accepts them because in that moment he decides that he’s not going to let this go. This thing with Cas, whatever it was, had lingered in the air between them for years and they’d danced around it. Sometimes they’d come dangerously close to breaking it, but they’d always brought it back to the same old routine. And now, after they’d finally—goddamn _finally_ —let themselves indulge in it tonight, Dean’s heart has staked a claim in Cas and he’s decided that the whole world could rise up and try and break them—heck, even Amara could spread her wings of death and try and blow them down—but he, Dean, would never let Cas go.

And so, as Cas sits patiently—awkwardly—awaiting Dean’s answer, Dean turns to him and nods, his eyes and lips warming with a smile.

Cas takes in a shaky breath and raises himself up onto his knees before twisting himself round and then stretching one leg over Dean’s lap. Once his leg is balanced again, Cas settles himself and nods, almost as if instilling confidence in himself, before his raises his eyes to Dean’s.

Crap. This was awkward.

Dean’s newfound bravery in their complicated relationship slowly fritters away as he becomes overly aware of himself being completely exposed in this position—something which he doesn’t doubt Cas is thinking too. Between them, their breath mingles, shakily, and Dean wonders if this really was the right route to take.

But then Cas frowns a little, in thought, and he takes a deep breath and, as if this was their first kiss all over again, he swallows to calm his nerves and then leans in.

And with that the awkwardness falls away. That simple act of just taking the plunge, of jumping the gap. Of not letting worry and fear dictate their lives.

And both men quickly indulge in the close contact. Dean captures Cas’ hips in his hands and pulls him closer as Cas’ hands search his chest and his neck and his jaw and his hair, pulling on it so that Dean’ mouth falls open. It’s like someone suddenly hit the gas pedal and now they were racing through the roads—splicing the air and glinting the sun in pure affluence.

And Dean can feel the familiar build. Regardless of his broken state, he feels the pins and needles that uncoil in the pit of his stomach and slowly spread, taking over his entire body.

Cas breaks the kiss, only to shift his mouth to line Dean’s jaw, which he stretches to allow him full access. He drags his bottom lip over Dean’s taunt skin until he reaches the area behind Dean’s ear, where he exhales softly and thus sends chills in waves over Dean’s back.

Dean softly bits down on his bottom lip as Cas gently kisses his neck, and then, slowly, begins to edge up the hem of Cas’ shirt, wanting to feel his skin—feel its edges and curves, and its marks and scars—wanting to finally know what it feels like. Cas’ breath deepens and then suddenly hitches when Dean’s fingertips make contact with his back before slowly mapping out every inch of it. 

And Dean, well Dean is beginning to lose it. His heartbeat is erratic—making the skin under Cas’ lips shake. His breath is slowly becoming short, and he can feel every movement Cas makes, as his hips slowly rock down, pressing into Dean and making him swell.

“Shit, Cas, I’m…” he mutters, closing his eyes and focusing on all aspects of his other senses being filled with everything _Cas_.

And he knows he should be embarrassed—this timing was ridiculous. But Dean doesn’t care, because this was different. This was years of tension let loose, running over everything in its path and overwhelming Dean entirely.

But then Dean feels Cas—the tightness straining his own trousers and the way in which Cas is pressing it, working it down and forward. And Cas’ breath, alive in Dean’s ear, is deep and hitching and laced with low moans and his heartbeat.

And that’s all Dean really needs. So as he runs his hands up under Cas’ shirt and marks his skin with heated lines, Cas nestles his face into the crook above Dean’s collarbone and lets out a deep moan, that vibrates through Dean’s bones and causes him to come, completely untouched, with only the stuttering pulse of Cas’ hips to work him through it.

Cas isn’t far behind, however—his hands turn to claws as he tenses and clings to Dean, with his mouth having moved to hover just above Dean’s, breathless and open.

After a moment, both men relax into one another, sated. They lie like that for a few minutes, burning through the glow, until Dean’s chuckles lightly and says, “Shit. You’ve turned me into a pubescent kid, Cas.”

Cas shifts where he lies against Dean’s chest, but he doesn’t rise, and mockingly, jokingly, replies, “There’s a first time for everything.”

Dean laughs out loud—a great booming laugh that he hasn’t let loose in a long while—and he feels Cas smile against him.

Dean grins. “Yeah, I suppose there is.”

* * *

 

A while later, Cas eventually slides off Dean and sits beside him once more. The colour of the sky by this point is now a deep mauve, hinting at an imminent daybreak

Sam would be there soon—apologetically coming to the rescue. They would put out the fire and get Dean back onto the mainland, where Cas would heal him. Then they’d go back to the bunker and back to Amara and the impending end of the world, and back to every other terrible thing that being them meant they couldn’t escape.

However, it wasn’t quite dawn yet and so this little piece of time was theirs.

And so, as the morning birds begun to call, Dean didn’t speak a word but simply reached down and took Cas’ hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my fic for the Dean/Cas Secret Santa Exchange! :D
> 
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> Cienna! <3 It was such a pleasure writing this for you - your prompts were great and it was difficult to choose one! This took me out of my comfort zone regarding my fic writing and it was so ridiculously fun to write something that I never would have thought to write in a million years. I hope I did your prompt justice and that you liked what I came up with! :)


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